Boogeyman
by Liey
Summary: Ten years later, only Ponyboy and Dallas are left to pick up the pieces, but they're torn and scattered.
1. Chapter 1

I own nothing.

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Smoke hangs in lazy circles around my head, floating slowly towards the ceiling. I watch them spiral up higher and higher, before disappearing into the yellowing wallpaper. My body feels heavy. Full of lead. I don't think I could get up off the bed if my life depended on it. In just this moment, I'm lost. But I'm lost in every moment. And lying here on this threadbare bed under a cracked ceiling, time seems to press in on me from all sides.

Loud footsteps from outside make the heavy load vanish for a minute, and I shoot up, grinding the rest of my cigarette under my foot.

"Fuckin', goddamn, shit-faced-" If the footsteps hadn't alerted me that sure would've. I lay back down on the bed, feeling for the switchblade in the pocket of my jeans. A foot kicks open the door, letting it slam against the wall. Another dent in the yellow walls...another dent...

"What're you lookin' at, kid?" Dallas stomps in and stands, framed by the doorway, staring at me. A dim streetlight somewhere down the road flickers as his head bobs in front of it. I shrug.

"He shrugs. He shrugs!" he mumbles to himself as he stumbles towards the bathroom. I hear him retching, cursing, falling. I light another cigarette, crack open a window. Dallas walks back in, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He stops at the foot of the bed, eyeing it suspiciously.

"They ain't that dirty." I nod at the sheets.

"You think I care?" He flops down on the bed, elbowing me out of the way. We're both silent for a second. I rub my side where he elbowed me, though it doesn't hurt.

"You talk to Buck today?" I blow out another smoke ring.

"Hell no," He snorts, rolling over.

"We need the money."

"And you think I'm gonna get the dough rollin' in working in that shithole? No way, kid," He sighs, kicking his shoes off. "No way."

I groan, and roll off the bed. Kicking open the ice box on the floor, I dig around for a moment. I'm hungry. Nothing looks good. All old, frozen food looks the same. The memory of chocolate cake fills me suddenly, and I slam the door shut. I'm not hungry. Dallas moans and throws up. Rubbing my forehead, I grab a bucket, half full of water from the ceiling and put it on his side of the bed.

"You mind?" I ask sarcastically.

"Keep your trap shut," He snaps, but without quite the usual bite. He dry heaves once more before slamming a fist against the protesting mattress.

"If you won't deal with Buck, I will," I say, poking him in the ribs. Vomit chucks splatter on the side walk as I dump the bucket outside, shouting back inside.

"Someone has to earn some fucking money around here!" I slam the door shut and put the bucket back under the leak. "I'm sick of frozen burritos."

"You think I like 'em any better?" He snaps. "I don't know why you even bother eating them. You'd be better off eating dirt."

"And that's why I can see all your ribs."

"Fuck off." He turns away from me and is asleep within minutes. I sigh, pulling a chair up next to the bed. Ready for another long night. I owe it to him.

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Reviews are greatly appreciated, even flames. It's all helpful to me.


	2. Chapter 2

I own nothing.

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Time, heavy and slow, suffocating, suddenly blurs. I see snippets, pieces of moments I can't quite place, faces I can't quite put names to. There's something dripping down my back. There's something dripping down my face. My feet are pounding rhythmically, spastically. I wonder vaguely if I'm running. I wonder how I can be running if I can't see.

I can't see...I can't see. I can't see.

I'm pounding on our door as my eyes finally open. The red door is there, cold under my fist. A bleary-eyed Dallas opens up, scowl already set in place. But I'm not. My eyes are open, but I'm not quite back yet. Dallas rolls his eyes and pulls me inside. I stand awkwardly in the entrance, looking around. I see everything, but something just isn't working...I can't process anything...my eyes flicker around by themselves, focusing slowly before moving on. I want to close them, to have just a moment of peace, but I can't. Dallas pushes me lightly onto the bed.

"Jesus, kid. This again?" I look up at him, bewildered. He throws a t-shirt at me.

"Get that rag off before you freeze to death." He pounds off to the bathroom and I can hear him rummaging around. Things are clanking together, he's cursing, something crashes. I pull my wet shirt off slowly, painstakingly. There's red on the back, and I finger the slimy spot. Dallas walks back in with a handful of bottles and a white roll. He drops them lightly on the bed next to me and sits down on the floor.

"Go on. Clean yourself up." He watches me with skeptical eyes. I stare blankly back at him. I have no idea what he's talking about.

"Why's there red on this shirt, Dal?"

Dallas snorts and rolls onto his back, holding his arms up in the air. He stays like that for a moment before rolling back over.

"You're bleeding, dumbass. Now clean yourself up." He stands up and slams out of the apartment and I'm left staring at my shaking hands. I still don't know what to do.

So I lie down on the bed and drop off to sleep.

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I wake up at some point to rough fingers on my back. It's tight and it hurts. I moan and try to roll over, but a hand stops me. My back is warm and my breathing uneven as I press my face into the pillow. Someone's cursing as I start drifting back off to sleep and I wish I could just hang around for one more minute...

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Reviews are greatly appreciated, even flames. It's all helpful to me.


	3. Chapter 3

I own nothing.

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When I wake up, things are clearer. I can focus and everything seems brighter. I squint into the bright sunlight beaming in through the window. It's still open, and the breeze floats in and I shiver. Dallas is sprawled on the floor, a pillow over his head, half a burrito by his side.

I stand up and stretch, nudging Dallas with my foot as I make my way to the bathroom. Right off the bedroom, our tiny bathroom always smells. I wrinkle my nose slightly as I relieve myself, before zipping up and turning to the sink. Holding the edges, I stare at my reflection for a moment. My hair is long now, hanging limply around my chin. I shake my head, watching the greasy strands rebel against the motion. I run a quick hand through them, pushing them back. The urge for a good gel hits me hard and I run my hand back down over my face. Quickly, I turn the faucet on and splash water at my reflection. I hear Dallas shuffling around in the other room.

"It's too early to be alive," He groans, "are you the brat who woke me up?"

I give him a pathetic, toothy grin and he punches me in the arm. He grabs the burrito off the floor, shakes it a few times, sniffs it, and takes a bite. I watch, impassively. They aren't much worse day-old than they are fresh. Dallas sees me eyeing his burrito and hovers over it protectively.

"Go get your own."

"I think I just might."

We sit on the bed munching our burritos quietly for a moment.

"You're right." He says suddenly.

"About what?"

"Needing a job." I'm surprised, but I turn away from him, staring out the window. We're quiet for another minute.

"Go talk to Buck again." I finally say. Dallas snorts next to me and wipes burrito crumbs off his hands over my head.

"That little shit treats his men like crap. Thinks that just because he can lead a goddamn construction crew, he's suddenly ruler of the whole fucking world. I tell you, Pone, nowadays a guy gets one lucky break and he thinks it's all uphill from there. No, sir. No way in hell am I working for Merrill."

I just shrug. There's no point in reminding Dally how lenient Buck was with me, how many days he just sent me home instead of firing my sorry ass, how many times he'd slip me an extra buck when he thought I was "looking thin." One lucky break may make a guy confident, but it sure don't make him stingy.

"Well, if you won't go, maybe I will." I say, but we both know I'm bluffing. Buck was lenient and often generous, but he's a businessman now just like the rest of them, and hiring a loony just ain't profitable.

"Yeah, sure. Why don't you go over there now? Just march right up and ask for your job back. We all know how well you did last time." Dallas lets out one cruel bark of a laugh before leaning his head against the headboard and sighing. "I hate frozen burritos."

"Yeah? Get a job." I shoot back, frustrated this time. He glares at me.

"You're one to talk."

Boy, do I know that's the truth, but I just shrug and slide into my shoes, slamming the door behind me as I wander out onto the street.

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Reviews are greatly appreciated, even flames. It's all helpful to me.


	4. Chapter 4

I own nothing.

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I can still taste frozen refried beans in my mouth as I stomp down the street. The hard cement sends little vibrations running up my legs and I know I should just slow to a walk. I really don't have anything to be upset about. It's just Dallas being Dallas, and when he starts in on something, there's no changing his mind. Still, the tiny shock of pain each time I step feels good. It's a relief. The hard clenching in my chest, the one that's been making it hard to breathe for the past ten years loosens a little, as it always does when there's real pain to counteract my grief.

Real pain…

The clenching feels real. The little shock to my system when I see the old house, when I pass the park, the DX; it all feels real. The hollow, choking sensation when I'm in the lot. The punch in the gut when I see anyone on a roof, anyone playing football, any little boy trying to look tuff, showing off his blade to a friend. Through this pain that isn't real but feels it, I always tell myself that I'm lucky; I'm lucky to still be standing, to have a roof over my head, a friend, a frozen burrito. I could be worse off, I tell myself.

But sometimes I don't believe it. Sometimes I wish I had died, too.

I've slowed almost to a complete stop, and in my daze, I find myself in front of the movie theater. It's been so long since I've seen a movie. I dig in my pocket, hoping I have enough for just one show- just barely, unless lint is now worth something. The girl at the ticket booth eyes me flirtatiously, batting her eyes and pursing her lips and asking me if there's _anything_ else I need. She looks like she's about 16, and I wonder what on earth she thinks she's doing. I'm washed out, dirty, and lost. I've seen myself, though I try to avoid it. I want to shake my greasy mop at her and tell her stories, stories of the world outside of her little after school job. I want to tell her to get out while she can, but instead I just smile at her and take my ticket.

It's a relief when I'm finally safe in the darkness of the movie house. I find a seat near the back, in the darkest corner and watch all the young couples. I want to shout at them, too. I want to tell them to stop messing around, to go home and study. I want to tell them that it's pointless, because 15-year-old couples never last. I want to tell them to stop wasting their money on movies, to go get a job. I want to tell them stories too, and warn them. But they're all busy, smiling and laughing, goofing off, waiting for the movie to start and for the next moment of their life to begin.

When I was 15, I thought my story would do some good someday. I thought that if I shared my life, my grief, and my lessons with other people maybe no one would end up in my situation. But that was back when I was silly and young and optimistic. That was back when Darry and Soda and Johnny were alive. That was back when Two-Bit was still laughing in Tulsa, when Steve had Evie and Soda and an obsessive love of cars. That was back when loyalty meant everything and sticking together, if nothing else, could get us through anything. That was back when we were invincible.

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Reviews are greatly appreciated, even flames. It's all helpful to me.


	5. Chapter 5

I own nothing.

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Once the movie ends, I find myself reluctant to get up and leave. It just feels so normal to be here. I feel like just by being here, I gain a little piece of my old self back. But thoughts of "old selves" also bring a chill with them, so I stand up and leave.

When I step out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I'm struck with a strange sense of déjà vu. I feel like I'm seeing the newly paved street, the new 24-hour store across the street, and the new cars rumbling down the street with old eyes. I shake me head, dig my hands deeper in my pockets, and head for the apartment again. I've killed enough time; time to go back and face Dallas. As much as we both hate to admit it, something needs to be done about our money situation.

He's passed out again by the time I'm slipping out of my shoes. I stretch and yawn, realizing that it's only mid-afternoon. My back feels sore, a little stiff, and I reach a hand around to scratch it. My fingers are met by a light dressing. In the bathroom, I take my shirt off and turn around in front of the mirror, staring at the white patch. There's a spot of red showing through, and I'm surprised that I hadn't noticed before now. I sigh, and put my shirt back on. Dallas must've patched me back up again. He may be stubborn as a mule, but sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve him.

To repay him, I walk back to the bedroom and nudge him with my foot. He rolls over and cracks one eyes open.

"Wha-?" He mumbles, blinking up at me a few times. I just point to my back and smile. He nods, rolls over, and is snoring again within minutes.

I laugh quietly to myself. Dallas' ability to sleep amazes me. No matter what's going on, if he wants seven hours of shut eye, he'll get it. I, on the other hand, am lucky if I get four. For a time, I was so exhausted that I'd resort to drugging myself up before bed, but that just made me fall asleep quickly and have a hard time waking up. The drugs didn't stop the nightmares, which were worse than ever.

I still remember the first anniversary of Soda's death. The nightmares had been so horrible, so gut-wrenching, and so real that I'd actually taken a chunk out of my arm. Darry had flipped out when he saw all the blood on my bed and had almost taken me to the hospital, but I was so scared that I begged him to just clean it out. It wasn't as bad as it had bled, but I was sure Darry was going to make me sleep in a straightjacket after that.

I rub my scar absentmindedly, reliving that night. Following Soda's death, Darry and I had grown distant. He buried himself in his work, taking on extra jobs whenever he could. Likewise, I buried myself in my books. I was determined to graduate and get out as soon as possible. I couldn't stand living in the space Soda once had, knowing that he'd never return. I started sleeping on the couch and spending most of my time at the library, or at school: anywhere but home with Darry, who alternately wanted to talk about Soda and shun me in favor of staring off into space.

That night was the first time in a year that Darry and I really saw each other. We'd been avoiding reality for so long, and succeeding, that everything just sort of crashed into place in that moment. There were only two of us left. More headstones than live bodies. There had been a lot of crying and hugging, and after that we renewed our efforts to help each other out. As long as we had each other, we'd still make it...

Dallas is awake now, and his cursing as he stumbles into the corner of the wall brings me out of my reverie. He sees me, misty-eyed as I am, and gives me a look I can't quite place.

"Whatcha' thinking about, kid?" I shake my head. Now's not the time to bring up that past. There's never a time for the past anymore.

"Nothing, Dal. Nothing."

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Reviews are greatly appreciated, even flames. It's all helpful to me.


	6. Chapter 6

I am not S..

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Dally sits across from me on the floor, staring squint-eyed from behind his cards. The window behind him hangs open loosely and the breeze plays across my face, making me shiver.

"Three." I slide three cards from my hand towards him and he deals me three new ones.

"Remember when Johnny killed that Soc?" I ask suddenly, testing the waters. Words, built up for years, cling to the roof of my mouth begging to be let free. I've spent so much time biting my lips, covering my mouth with my hand, swallowing repeatedly to keep the words from spilling out. It's never a good time, I know that, but sometimes the pressure of all these unspoken words seems like too much. Sometimes I think that if I don't poke a little hole in this balloon that I've become, one day I'm just going to pop.

Dallas stiffens and put his cards down on the carpet, face up. His eyes are bleak, his mouth a chiseled line in stone across his face. Will it even open? My hand twitches slightly and I take a deep breath.

"Yeah."

We're both silent for a moment, calculating our cards, figuring out where we stand in this anti-conversation.

"I win," He finally says, gathering the cards up and handing the deck to me. I deal the cards out.

"You ever wonder what Johnny would be like now? You know, if he was still alive?" I know that's a push, but it just slipped out. The floodgates have slid open and if I don't get some of these questions out now, I'll snap. My eyelids are fluttering, faster and faster.

"Shoot, kid. What does it matter? Dead is dead," He says, picking up his cards again.

I nod and bite my lip. My hand is vibrating on the carpet.

"Dead is dead, but it don't mean he never lived, Dal," I say quietly after a moment.

"Two," he says, pulling two cards from his hand and putting them down on the carpet in front of me. I sigh and deal him out two more.

"'Course he lived, but he's dead now. Dead for nothing."

Dallas studies his cards intently, rubbing over the edge of one with his thumb. My arm is twitching, moving on its own. My breathing picks up.

"Not for nothing."

"Just those stupid little kids."

We lay our cards down.

"Sometimes I wish I had died with him," I say, my leg beginning to twitch. Dallas doesn't look up, just fingers his cards.

"Me too."

I gather up the cards as best I can, both my hands shaking now. I slide the deck to Dallas and he deals out a new hand.

"Sometimes I wish you hadn't stopped me from running out of that damn hospital, Ponyboy."

I just stare at my cards. I know.

"One," I finally say, but my hands and arms are shaking so hard now that I can barely slide my card towards him. He looks up and his eyes widen.

"Christ, not again," I see him moving towards me, but black closes in first.


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